Cry Baby
by Moonstruck88
Summary: She was so wrapped up in her cloud of pain that his shadow in the doorway didn't stir her.


**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: Criticism is welcomed. But please, no immature flaming. __My 'annoyed with humanity' muscle goes on full alert._

_Also, **Belligerent-road-pylon**, I haven't forgotten your dare. I promise._

**Cry Baby**

Three in the morning, in a chair in his office. Her shoulders began shaking, her head hit the desk, and from that point on, she was gone. There was no stopping the flood gates from opening. No stopping the water from crashing. One lost childhood. One dead husband. Two unimpressed parents, and a man who refused to love her. Who knew it'd all come collapsing in a darkened office, at three in the morning, at the peak - the prime - of her life?

Maybe it was the silence. Those long, uncomfortable pauses between words in a conversation; those long, waking hours in the middle of the night. Those long days at work, and long stretches of loneliness afterwards. She avoided them. She filled conversations with empty words, filled her sleeplessness with alcohol. And she filled her days at work with . . . _him_. All unhealthy, and all futile.

But she was a doctor; she made up for her reckless abandon. Heal other people, destroy herself. It made perfect sense in the end.

_In the end of what?_ was the question.

There was something about the stillness tonight that threw her convictions to the wind - something about his quiet office that unraveled her soul in its palm. A teardrop soaked through a paper on his desk - unanswered mail, no doubt. Maybe she should drop one on every paper there, so he could see them - smell them - in the morning. Maybe he'd touch them and regret something. Maybe he would apologize; maybe she would forgive him. And maybe then he would love her.

Maybe.

Her swollen eyes squeezed closed against her forearms, and a sniffle resounded beneath her. The echo was hollow. The struggle was vain. Yet it was the only comfort she knew. She stayed at his desk because a cold apartment awaited her. She gave voice to her heartache - in the form of a whimper - because she knew he would never hear her. She stayed in his chair to be near him; she cried on his papers to spite him.

She was so wrapped up in her cloud of pain that his shadow in the doorway didn't stir her. His burning gaze didn't phase her. His step-thumps were muffled by the sound of her wheezing, and she didn't even hear him stop. Right in front of his La-Z-Boy - his chosen perch of observation. It was the smell that gave him away. He was the only man who smelled like that - soothing and abrasive at once.

Debating a joke about snot on his desk, and dismissing it for lack of a punch line, he watched as she became acquainted with his shadow, and then as she lifted her head. He was a warm body, in a cold room, to serve as her source of strength. But for some reason, the presence of another person made the tears flow more freely yet. Maybe it was the potential for sympathy. The body's instincts desired love as much as the mind's.

Tear-tracks were stained across her beautiful cheeks. Like temporary tattoos from the gum ball machine. Just badges of pain, from a bowl of trivialities. They pretended to be worse than they were. And yet, they were downplayed, by everyone in the world but the sufferer. Always too hot; always too cold. Never just what they were worth.

Her eyes - which were either too swollen, to indifferent, or too nervous - refused to meet his in the middle. And so they stayed that way, in silence, until he gathered a chair and limped toward her. Four metal legs were planted behind her - a swoosh of air as he sat - and a large hand disappeared to the underside of her seat. She was swivelled around to look at him. But still, she refused to meet him. A joke about aloofness died on the tip of his tongue.

Immediately turning in her chair and swinging her legs over the side, she faced away from his scrutiny, and bit her soggy fist to keep herself from screaming - at the room, at him, at her. Even in the depths of her agony, her heart beat a little bit faster. All she could will it to do was beat slower and slower until she could no longer feel it in her chest.

He watched as her shoulders were racked with another round of sobs, and as her features were scrunched into funny, little shapes. Which made him wonder: why do people smile when they're crying? Her lips were curled upward with no amount of grace; she had a dimple at the crest of her eyebrows.

Parting his legs as far as they'd go, he straddled the seat to make room. And then he whispered her name. "Cameron . . ."

Two strong hands on her body - one at her waist, and one at her knee. She was pried gently from her grip on the seat of her chair, and pulled over to House's instead. He drew her backbone to his chest and propped her feet up on the other chair with his leg. Rumpled shirt sleeves tickled her arms as his hands came to rest on her stomach.

Cry, Baby  
Just cry  
Cuz I'm gonna hold you tonight

Cry, Baby  
Just cry  
Everything's gonna be alright

She laid her head back, against his shoulder, and inhaled the scent of man. The scent of abrasion and comfort. A lone tear slipped down the slope of her neck and into the collar of her blouse. The rest became lost on her comforter's shirt.

Cry, Baby  
Long and slow  
And your tears will fall into place

Cry, Baby  
Don't you know  
That I won't let your tears go to waste?

House surveyed the damage to his mail, and decided this was a better alternative.

Cry, Baby Doll  
Because salt is just my taste


End file.
